


WHISKEY AND KISSES FOR EVERYONE

by Wolfiekins



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Adult Content, Adult Language, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, Foul Mouthed Winchesters, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Sam Winchester, Season/Series 02, Sibling Incest, Touchy Feely!Dean, Wincest - Freeform, angsty!sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-12-09 03:26:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11660652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolfiekins/pseuds/Wolfiekins
Summary: Sam's distraction over Dean's decision to leave the near-perfect fantasy created by the djinn lands them in a sticky situation. And then there's the thing with the salt.





	WHISKEY AND KISSES FOR EVERYONE

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the July 2017 [ Wincest Writing Challenge ](http://wincestwritingchallenge.tumblr.com) on tumblr.
> 
> Title taken from Richard Siken's "Little Beast", from his volume _Crush_ (2005).
> 
> Takes place in season 2 between "What Is And What Should Never Be" and "All Hell Breaks Loose".

**_ WHISKEY AND KISSES FOR EVERYONE _ **

__

_~~ May 7, 2008 ~*~ **Escanaba, Michigan** ~~_

 

 _Life is strange_ , Sam thinks outta nowhere, _really fuckin' strange._

With a ragged intake of breath, he braces his back against the splintered column for what seems like the thousandth time, shifting his weight to his left side, carefully, oh so carefully, rolling his right shoulder around and back, around and up, around and back.

The thought isn't exactly a newsflash, Sam muses, acutely aware that he's losing focus, his usually orderly thought processes swiftly devolving into chaos.

“ _My_ life is fuckin' strange,” he mumbles to the shadows, the scratchy ropes binding his wrists deigning to loosen at a maddeningly slow rate. 

Or maybe they're not loosening up at all.

Maybe he's as tightly bound as he'd been from the get go.

Sam rests a moment, his lips dry, his head pounding. 

How long had it been? 

_A long fuckin' time_ , his mind answers, and Sam decides to roll with it. 

They'd been searching for a vamp Nest, bumbling onto one that turned out to be a _fall back_ nest. It had been sundown by then, yet another fuck-up in a recent series of fuck-ups, and it'd all gone to shit when the vamps showed up right after that.

“Dean?”

Still no answer; there hadn't been for hours. 

Sam shakes his head, barely flicking the blood-sticky bangs from his eyes, squinting through the gloaming toward the lump of darker shadow splayed on the floor some yards away.

Wan shafts of light creep through the gaps in the barn's plank walls, barely casting any definition to anything, though Sam realizes he can't see much because of dried blood caking his eyes, or his probable concussion. 

Sam focuses on the shadow that's his brother, pulling in as many deep breaths as his aching ribs allow before going through his routine again: shoulder roll up, compress and curl wrist, pull and shove, roll, curl, pull and shove.

 _Dean's not dead_ , Sam says to himself over and over. _Not dead_.

He's pretty sure his brother's not dead, as he'd heard Dean moan and groan here and there over the course of the night and ensuing day. Hurt bad, yeah, maybe a serious concussion or a minor skull fracture, hurt bad enough the vamps hadn't even bound Dean to anything solid, just dumping him onto last year's bed of moldy straw.

 _Roll, curl, pull, shove_.

They should've been more careful, could've been more careful, and it all doesn't matter to a hill of beans if Sam can't get his hands free.

He knew Dean'd been thrown for a loop after the crap with the djinn in Illinois, and no amount of pie or extra-onion double cheeseburgers or endless _Casa Erotica_ marathons had been able to snap Dean from his funk. Dean'd been given a chance to experience everything he'd ever dreamed of, a normal life, and he'd given it up. 

Dean had fought to come back to their hellish world, their dark and twisted existence.

Their life together.

His and Dean's

 _Roll, curl, pull, shove_.

Sam's feet are nearly numb from the chill, and his ass fell asleep hours ago, but he's certain he's making headway, certain now that his right wrist has moved the slightest bit, and he can feel blood seeping from where the rope is digging into his skin, so maybe that'll help slick things up.

The lengths Dean will go to in order to keep them together isn't exactly a state secret, and while most folks might feel, well, suffocated by such an all-encompassing need, he and Dean weren't most people. They'd needed and depended on each other for so long, grown so completely intertwined, that one simply couldn't function without the other. 

So of course Sam'd been thrilled and relieved and ecstatic when Dean had managed to pull himself out of the djinn's spellworld, but at the same time, he found that a disturbing knot of guilt had lodged deep down inside him. Irrational? Probably. But the fact remained that Dean had chosen to forego the equivalent of a lifetime of happiness, and the loss of such an opportunity was almost too overwhelming for Sam to contemplate. 

It didn't make sense to feel this way, but that's the way it was.

 _Roll, curl, pull, shove_.

A sharp gust rattles the barn siding, stirring up a host of whirling zephyrs in the reddening slivers of light slicing through the gloom

Sam concentrates on his routine, focusing on his goal, squeezing his eyes shut, gasping as shards of pain circuit through him.

“Dean?” Sam manages to rasp, almost feeling better for the effort.

“I'm comin', Dean. Hang on.”

No answer.

Nothing. 

_Roll, curl, pull, shove_.

Sam knows it's all his fault. 

He knows he shouldn't have even _mentioned_ Ellen's tip about a little vamp nest in the U.P. of Michigan.

Small change hunt, a milk run.

His gut had told him in no uncertain terms that Dean wasn't one hundred percent; far from it. 

But there'd been that pleading glint in Dean's eye, one that silently begged for a distraction, something, anything to do, and Sam had caved.

Maybe they'd get lucky, Sam recalls thinking at the time, and everything would play out without a hitch. 

If there was such a thing as luck, it rarely shone upon the Winchesters. 

Sam rolls his shoulder faster and faster, pulling harder and longer, his wrists moving more freely each time. 

“Oh, yeah, almost there, Dean.”

The skeletal fingers of light retreat across the heaped straw, their crimson tint a harbinger of imminent sundown. 

_Hurry up!_

Dean had been right; there wasn't a God, or even angels. Just random, horrific evil that swooped in and tore everything to shreds. All they could do was keep fighting, together, and dodge fate as long as they could. 

_Roll, curl, pull, Shove!_

Slowly and all at once, Sam feels his right wrist slide free.

He's stiff, almost frozen in his sitting position, his limbs refusing their orders to move. He concentrates, taking shuddering breaths, gently shaking out the pins and needles plaguing his arms and fingers. He stares toward the shadow that is Dean, willing his fingers to respond, to pick away at the tight knots lashing him to the support beam. 

More wind batters the barn siding and the heavy ropes fall away.

Sam flops on his side, the metallic tang of panic rising up from his gut.

_Move!_

His legs barely respond at first, useless slabs, but as Sam drags himself toward Dean, sensation returns little by little.

By the time Sam reaches his brother, his legs are afire, slim columns of crampy pain.

“Dean? Hey, jerk, c'mon, it's me.” 

Sam pulls himself alongside Dean, checking for, and finding a thready, yet steady, pulse.

“Whaddya say we get the hell outta here, huh?”

Sam nuzzles Dean's left ear.

“Don't wanna be vamp bait, do ya?”

Sam leans in, leaving a chaste kiss to Dean's temple.

“Mmmpf,” Dean responds.

“Exactly. C'mon, we gotta go.” Sam kneels at Dean's side, fumbling with the bonds binding his brother's hands and ankles.

“Sammah?” Dean mumbles. “Wha th' fuh.”

“Oh, just a typical hunt gone sideways. The usual.” Sam's going on instinct, deftly running his hands over his brother's body, assessing Dean's condition as best he can. “Anything broken? Can you move?” He gently palpitates Dean's belly.

“Freezin',” Dean manages through clenched teeth, finally opening his eyes. “Nothin' broken. Head. Hurts like a motherfucker.”

“Yeah, I'll bet,” Sam agrees, gingerly mapping the dimensions of a moderately sized knot on the back of Dean's skull. “They got you pretty good.”

Dean tries to sit, but falters. “Fuckin' bloodsuckers. If they weren't already dead, I'd kill 'em.”

Sam slides behind Dean, pulling him to a sitting position. “Better give yourself a minute before you go all Buffy on me.” He wraps his arms around Dean, hugging him tight.

“Ain't no chick slayer,” Dean grumps, leaning into Sam. “Van Helsing, maybe.”

“You've just got a thing for Jackman. Admit it.” Sam feels himself grin, but his stomach's curling into knots. 

“Jackman's cool.” Dean twists around to look up at Sam. “You get bit?”

Sam shakes his head. “No, you?”

“Yeah.” Dean rubs a hand to the side of his neck. “Can't blame 'em. I'm the handsome one.”

“Didja ever consider that maybe they were just gonna drain you, and turn _me_?”

Dean pulls a face. “Well, you're moody and broody enough, I guess. You'd fit right in.”

“Jesus, Dean.”

“What?”

“Can you stand?”

“I think— ”

Without waiting for an answer, Sam stands, then hooks his arms under Dean's armpits and yanks his brother up. Sam's legs are still pins and needles, but they're as responsive as they're going to get at the moment.

“Damn it, Sam!”

“Shut up!” Sam steadies himself, and it's crystal clear that Dean can't walk, let alone stand on his own. “Okay, here we go.”

“Man, gimme a few minutes!” Dean protests as Sam scoops him up. “Hey!”

“Quit fussing around or we'll never get outta here.” Sam glares at his brother. “Dean?”

“What?”

“Help me out, willya?”

Dean ceases his wriggling and throws an arm around Sam's shoulder.

“I'll try to get us all the way to the Impala, if she's still where we left her.”

“She'd damn well better be!” Dean seethes.

“Dean?”

“What?”

“I said, shut up!” 

Dean opens his mouth to say something, but Sam smothers Dean's lips with a kiss, shoving his tongue past Dean's. Dean tries to pull away a little at first, but quickly succumbs to Sam's onslaught.

Sam breaks the kiss, leaning his forehead to Dean's. 

“We gotta go, man.”

“Then hit it, Sasquatch,” Dean answers, sufficiently mollified. “Like I said, moody.”

Sam favors Dean with a grunt before heading for the rear of the barn. He manages to find a man-door behind a series of stalls, kicks it open, and steps out into the death throes of an unnecessarily gorgeous sunset, the entire landscape awash in deep scarlets, purples, and blue-blacks.

“Sailor's delight,” Dean says absently.

“Yeah.”

A moment later, the adrenaline kicks in, and Sam's moving efficiently across a narrow meadow toward the nearest treeline. Dean's heavier than hell and his legs feel like rubber, but he'll be damned if he'll ever give up on Dean.

**~~~*~~~ SW @~~ DW ~~~*~~~**

“I'm tellin' ya, I don't need to be observed!” Dean tries to stop his wheelchair, grabbing both wheels and pushing his feet down, but the beefy CNA, Josh, clamps a big hand to Dean's shoulder, never missing a beat. 

“You keep on misbehaving, Mr. Mahogoff, and you'll find yourself _restrained_ while on observation.”

“Man, I have rights!” Dean splutters.

“C'mon, Dean,” Sam says, bringing up the rear of their little procession. “You've got a grade two concussion, and they're telling you that's a minimum of twenty-four hours of observation. We've got nowhere to be, so just settle down and quit making an ass of yourself.”

“Listen to your boyfriend,” Josh quips, expertly steering Dean into a room.

“We're brothers,” Sam and Dean reply in unison.

“Sure, fine, we'll go with that,” Josh drawls, bringing Dean to a stop next to the bed. “Kinda kinky, though.”

“What the hell is it with this gay thing?” Dean whines as Josh locks the wheelchair and swings the footrests out of the way. “Do I look gay? Do I?”

Sam drops their big duffel and holds up both hands in mock resignation. 

Josh squeezes Dean's shoulder. “How's about we worry about all that _after_ we're sure your pretty lil' head isn't going to implode, 'kay? Now I'm going to slip my arms right under your armpits, see, and—” 

“I can get into bed myself,” Dean grumbles, struggling to keep his flimsy hospital gown in place. “Hate these damn things. Why the hell can't they zip up or somethin'? It's freezin' in here.”

Josh easily hefts the still-complaining Dean onto the edge of the bed. “Now you just settle yourself in there, okay?” He waits a moment while Dean arranges himself. “All right, let's get you covered up, then.” He pulls the blanket and sheets up to Dean's torso, but Dean's having none of it, shoving the blanket back to the foot of the bed. 

“Don't want that heavy thing on me,” Dean mutters, scratching and pulling at the bandages wrapped around his head. “Don't need these, either.”

“Is he always this fussy?” Josh asks, favoring Sam with a vaguely sympathetic smirk.

“Usually,” Sam says quickly, busying himself with rooting through the contents of the duffel.

“Patience of a saint,” Josh murmurs, watching as Dean makes a show of getting comfortable. “So this here's the remote for the bed, and that little gray thing with the red button is the one you press if you need help to potty or something.”

“No effin' way,” Dean comments, shaking his head.

Josh presses on, holding up a black remote. “This one's for the tee-vee. They've just added E! and Logo to the channel line-up, so I'm sure you'll find something interesting to watch.”

Dean ceases his squirming long enough to glare at Josh. “Sam!”

“What channel's Spike TV?” Sam asks.

Josh raises an eyebrow. “Well, how butch.” He snatches up the remote, and the moderately sized television mounted to the wall blazes to life. “Channel 43. Oh, and it looks like you're in luck. Re-runs of _American Gladiators_ ". 

“Cool,” Dean and Sam comment together.

“Wow,” Josh says, rolling his eyes. “On that note, I'll fetch your meds while you settle in.” He gestures vaguely to the not-so-comfy looking recliner in the corner. “St. Francis policy allows _family_ to spend the night in patient's rooms.” He eyes Sam from head to toe. “Don't worry, sweetness, I won't tell a soul.”

“Man,” Dean growls.

“Thanks, thanks very much,” Sam says, following Josh to the door. “Is the cafeteria still open?”

“Is it after eight?” Josh consults his wristwatch. “Well, damn, time flies. They just closed the line, but there's always plenty leftover from dinner service that'll heat up fine. I'll have a tray sent up toot sweet,” Josh coos, squeezing Sam's shoulder.

Sam waves a hand. “No, that's okay, I can run down there myself—”

“I'm sure you can, but you've had quite a day, too, by the look, so just chill out up here with your, um, _brother_.” Josh cocks his head to one side. “And feel free to use the shower if you want. It'll do ya wonders.”

“Well, maybe,” Sam replies, a flush rising up and out of his collar. 

Josh nods. “All right, so I'll see what I can rustle up for ya.”

“Pizza!” Dean blurts out.

Josh pulls a face. “She has spoken.”

“God damn it, Sam!” Dean warns, arms folded across his chest.

“Hey, look, if there's any way to get a cheeseburger and fries or something like that, that'd be really, really great.” Sam adopts what he hopes to be his most hangdog expression. 

Josh winks. “Got it. And what about you?”

Sam waves a hand. “Nah, I'm good. Really.”

“Bullpucky.” Josh flips a hand toward Dean. “You got your hands full. We just got a new food service contractor, and the stuff's actually semi-edible. What'll ya have, sweetness?”

“He'll have whatever you got that'd most appeal to rabbits,” Dean calls out, waving the television remote like a phaser. 

Sam rolls his eyes. “Any kind of salad, yeah. I'm easy.”

“I bet.” Josh eyes Sam from head to toe and back again. “Not much happenin' at the moment around here, so it shouldn't take long, but if you need anything, anything at all, hit that red button.”

“Thanks. We really appreciate it.”

Josh nods before turning on a heel to disappear in the corridor.

“Shoulda thrown holy water on _that_ one,” Dean quips, jerking his head toward the doorway.

“Just relax, okay? He might be a little overbearing—” 

“A _little_? Are you kidding?” Dean wrinkles up his nose. “Kinda gross how he's fawning all over you.”

“What?” Sam throws his hands up. “He's not _fawning_ over me.”

Dean folds his arms and studies the drop ceiling. “Next he'll be offering to scrub your back in the shower.”

“Don't be ridiculous!”

“I'm not. Just observant.”

“Whatever,” Sam grumps, sliding the duffel to the far side of the bed and pulling the not-so-comfy looking armchair in close. “Good thing the E.R. doc had that head-on crash to deal with, or else he might've been a bit more skeptical about those 'spider bites' on your neck.”

“Maybe they got big spiders around here.”

“Yeah, and they're Australian and the size of dinner plates.” Sam hands over three little bottles of booze. “This should take the edge off.”

“Come to papa,” Dean breathes, twisting off the tiny cap and polishing off the tiny bottle of Seagram's in three gulps. “Now that's what I'm talkin' about. Whiskey for everyone.” He makes short work of the other two and gestures for more.

“Take it easy,” Sam replies, making short work of a mini-bottle of Cuervo. “You're down half a pint or so, so let's not get stupid. The last thing you need is a case of alcohol poisoning.”

Dean waves a hand as if to dispel a foul odor. “All things considered, I'm good.” He settles his head back into the pillow, narrowing his gaze. “So, how _you_ doin'?” He reaches for Sam's nearest hand, squeezing it tight.

“I'm okay, I'm fine,” Sam says, nearly snatching his hand away. It's _extremely_ rare that Dean's demonstrative, let alone in a semi-public setting.

“You always say that.” Dean clasps Sam's hand tighter.

Sam shrugs. “'Cause it always true.”

“Don't shit me, Sasquatch. You barely got us back to Baby.”

“But I did. That's all that matters.”

Dean seems to consider a response but thinks better of it. He watches _Gladiators_ for a moment, his eyelids a little heavy.

“Hey, Dean,” Sam begins.

“Yeah, what, bitch, what?” Dean turns to take him in, and Sam's a bit surprised that Dean's still holding his hand.

“I just wanted to say that I'm sorry that I wasn't totally on my game with this one. I was distracted, and it nearly got us killed.” Sam averts his eyes, studying the pattern of the institutional floor tile. “I nearly got _you_ killed.”

There's a long pause, and Sam hears nothing but the low drone of the television and the soft crinkle of Dean's mattress. 

Dean squeezes his hand. “Hey, lookit me, okay?”

Sam complies, and Dean's rolled on his side, right to the edge of the bed. His eyes are tired and rimmed in red, but still the most striking shade of pale green Sam's ever seen. 

“You always wanna take the weight of the world on your shoulders, Sammy,” Dean begins, “and that's one of your strengths, one of the things that makes me most proud of you.” He leans closer. “And one of the things I love the most, too.” 

“Dean—”

“Pretty sure you're beatin' yourself up about the djinn thing. I know how that over-sized grapefruit of yours works. You think I gave up the perfect fantasy all because of you.”

“I just want you to be happy, man,” Sam replies, annoyed at how lame his response sounds.

“Bein' with you makes me happy, Sammy.”

Sam scoots closer, barely able to look Dean in the eye. “But you said you wanted to stay so bad. You said so. You gave up bliss for _me_ , and it's a little tough to wrap my head around that.”

“You're damn straight I gave it up because of you,” Dean grinds out through clenched teeth. “You're all that I got, Sammy. Nothing, no fake fantasy, no alternate reality or whatever-the-fuck, is any good for me unless you're in it. Unless it's you and me, together, like we are here and now.” He leans forward, gripping Sam's hand painfully tight. “You got that, loud and clear?”

Sam nods, swallowing hard. 

“Good. Now get the fuck up here and kiss me, 'cause I'm about to fall outta this damn bed.”

Sam releases Dean's hand and does as he's told, mashing his lips to Dean's, hefting himself out of the chair to the edge of the bed. 

Dean flops onto his back with a groan, and Sam breaks the kiss.

“You okay?” Sam asks.

“You're sitting on my arm,” Dean deadpans.

“Shit.”

Dean extracts his arm from underneath Sam's butt and squirms a bit, having difficulty getting comfortable. Sam makes to return to the chair, but Dean stops him. “Don't.”

“What?”

“Sit here. Next to me. Watch some Spike TV.”

“Isn't there anything else on?” Sam says, still on the edge of the bed.

“Do I look like TV Guide? How the hell do I know what's on? What day is it, anyway?”

“It's Wednesday,” Josh calls out, wheeling in a cart with two trays on it. He pauses just inside the doorway, raising an eyebrow. “Everything okay?”

“Just peachy,” Dean replies with a wink.

Sam makes to get up but Dean clamps a hand on Sam's thigh.

“Fabulous,” Josh gushes, grabbing the adjustable table and shoving it up to the bedside. “First things first.” He hands Dean a tiny plastic cup. “Swallow 'em all down, please and thank you.” He then snaps open a can of ginger ale, holding at the ready.

Dean complies, washing each pill down with a swig of soda.

“Now that's a good boy,” Josh drawls. “Okay, so, they didn't have burgers downstairs tonight, but they had these miniature Philly cheese steak things with fries, so I hope that's okay.” 

Sam can barely contain his laughter as Dean's eyes go wide.

“Oh, hell yeah!” Dean says around a smile.

“And it was either a chicken caesar or some mondo taco triple meat salad bowl deal, so I went with the chicken caesar.” Josh sets both covered dishes down and plants fists on hips. “Good?”

Sam flashes a double thumbs up. “Great, thanks, Josh, really.”

“My pleasure,” Josh replies with a wave of a hand. “I'm here _all_ night, and you two are the most interesting folks to grace the St. Francis night shift in months.” He roots around in the pocket of his tunic, extracting two sets of plastic-wrapped cutlery, tossing one to Sam and the other to Dean. “Oh, almost forgot.” He pulls out a set of salt and pepper shakers. “These are so much better than those damn packets!”

Sam watches with a perverse fascination as the white plastic container somehow twirls out of Josh's hand.

Josh notices the salt shaker's tumble, making a valiant grab for it. Instead of snatching it cleanly, he sends it into an end-over-end tailspin to bounce off the edge of the bed frame at the foot of Dean's bed. The shaker careens upward, nearly hitting the ceiling before arcing to the linoleum to explode in a rather spectacular spray of sodium chloride.

“Well, fuck!” Josh exclaims, throwing his arms wide. “Just what I need! At least I didn't bust a mirror.” He bends down, taking a pinch of the spilt salt and throwing it over his shoulder. 

“Um, you're supposed to throw it over your left shoulder,” Sam corrects, standing up and folding his arms. “I mean if you subscribe to the whole 'spilled salt is bad luck' kinda thing, which it seems you do.”

Josh cocks his head to one side. “Say what?”

“Hey, Sam, the duffel, please?” Dean asks politely.

“Oh, sure.” Sam plops the duffel on the bed and Dean roots around in it in earnest. “So you threw the salt over your right shoulder,” Sam continues, “which doesn't adhere to the lore. Spilled salt should be thrown over the _left_ shoulder, in order to blind the Devil, or Satan, supposedly waiting there.”

“He's right,” Dean adds, twisting off the cap and downing a miniature bottle of Maker's Mark. “How many more of these we got in here, Sammy?”

“Should be a few more, unless you drank 'em all.”

“I sure as shit didn't,” Dean responds, opening the duffel wide and sticking his head inside.

“I'll just go and grab a broom and dustpan,” Josh says, backing towards the door.

Sam waves him off. “Nah, I'll get it. We've taken up too much of your time as it is.”

“Well, if you don't mind,” Josh replies, looking vaguely relieved.

“And don't worry about the salt thing. There's no evidence that spilling it has any real, detrimental effects. It all goes back to when salt was extremely valuable as a preservative, and the spilling of it, the wasting of it, came to be seen as bad luck. It all dovetails with the notion of Judas Iscariot's treachery and lies, alluding to the spilled salt next to his elbow in Da Vinci's 'The Last Supper'. Like I said, though, there's nothing to worry about. Just a myth, no foundation in fact.”

“Uh huh,” Josh says sagely from the doorway.

“Same as the broken mirror thing. Totally false.” Sam waves a hand. “Now one thing to _never_ do? Bloody Mary. You know what I'm talking about, right? Saying that into a mirror? We took care of one Mary in Toledo last year, but there could be others.” Sam points a finger. “So never do that, okay?”

“Right,” Josh nods, safely in the hallway. He clutches his chest. “Oh my.” The next instant, he's gone.

“Huh. I thought he'd be more open-minded,” Sam says to the room.

“Might have something to do with your delivery,” Dean quips, tossing Sam another little bottle of Cuervo.

Sam shakes his head, downing the tequila. “Some folks just can't handle the truth.”

“No shit,” Dean agrees. “Hey, make yourself useful.” He tosses Sam a canister of rock salt. “Hit the windows.”

“Got it.” Sam makes quick work of laying the salt line. He circles back to Dean's bedside, eyeing the nearly empty canister in his hand. “I wonder, though,” He pauses, meeting Dean's gaze. “There's always a small kernel of truth to any bit of lore. We spill a boatload of salt. There could be some weird, cumulative effect or something. Might explain how unlucky we are most of the time.”

Dean glares at Sam. “You think we're unlucky?”

Sam shrugs. “Sometimes. I mean we got lucky today, but—”

“Pump the brakes!” Dean chides, holding up a hand for emphasis. “First, we don't _spill_ salt, carelessly or accidentally. We do it _meaningfully_ , with a purpose. Second, it's not like it's such a life-or-death commodity anymore.”

“Not sure if that makes a difference.”

Dean waves a hand. “Man, you think too much.”

“I dunno, Dean,” Sam muses, the strain of the day, not to mention the Cuervo, finally taking a toll. “I guess it's not even about being unlucky. More like being cursed.”

Dean considers a moment before snagging one of his mini-cheese steaks and gnoshing with gusto. “I think you're full of shit,” he says around a mouthful.

“Thanks, brother, love you too.” Sam rips open a utensil packet and digs into his chicken caesar. 

“What's really screwed up here is that I even have to tell you this,” Dean answers, smacking his lips. “You're looking at it all wrong, man. All you gotta do is to decide that the glass is _always_ at least half-full.”

“Seriously? That's too simplistic, even for you.”

Dean flips him off. “Sometimes the simplest explanation is the correct one. Right, college boy?”

“Akim's Razor,” Sam murmurs.

“Yeah, I read.”

Sam snorts. “You got that from _Contact_.

“Whatever,” Dean shoots back around a frown. 

“What's that got to do with us being cursed?”

“My point,” Dean says in a carefully measured tone, “is that we gotta keep it simple. Otherwise, you go into 'beautiful mind' mode, work yourself up into a tizzy, and meanwhile, everything slowly but surely spins outta control.”

“A _tizzy_? Seriously?” Sam rubs at his temple.

“Look, Sammy, all I can do is try to get across what helps me, okay? Do I think that all the salt we've dumped has cursed us? Nope. Anything's possible, I gotta admit, but I can't buy in on that one. Where the rubber really hits the road for me is that when it comes right down to it, we're in control of what happens. Not fate, not destiny, or even luck, but _us_.”

Sam jabs his fork into the remains of his salad. “How can you say that? After all that's happened?”

“Easy.” Dean smirks, triumphant. “Because we're still here. _After all that's happened_.”

“That doesn't prove a thing,” Sam says, shaking his head.

“Well, I prefer to believe that while there's a lotta random going on, we're still flyin' the plane. I'm a great hunter, and you're pretty damn sharp too, though tragically full of yourself—”

“Fuck off, man!”

“—but despite all that, it's mostly us and not some mythical galactic force. So was it luck or skill that saved our asses today?”

“Maybe a bit of both,” Sam says.

“I'll go with awesome skills with a dash of luck. We're a pretty awesome team, Sammy, you've got to admit that, at least.”

Sam shrugs, squeezing the last of the dressing packet onto his salad. “So you're saying I'm not positive enough? Dean, I'm definitely a half-full kinda guy.”

Dean eyes him a long time, his eyelids once again heavy. “Yeah, but you're not the Pollyanna you used to be. You've taken quite a few hits lately, and you're a lot more cynical now. I get it, man, I do. It's part of the gig, helps us keep our edge, to stay frosty. But you don't want to get too jaded, or bitter. Don't give up hope, Sammy, okay? You can't, man. Sometimes, well, most times, you're the only one I can count on to lift me up, to keep me going.” He gobbles down the last mini-cheese steak, mopping his chin with a napkin, eyeing the mound of cold french fries as if they might bite.

Sam shoves away the remains of his caesar, turning Dean's words over and over. 

Of course his mindset had been sullied by all the things he'd seen, both before, and especially after Stanford. He'd had his belief, his _faith_ in a higher power dashed in the most spectacular fashion possible, and there was no question he'd changed, and while Sam himself would've described that change as a maturation of sorts, a coming to terms with a new world brimming with darker and greater challenges than he'd ever imagined, he'd have still thought he'd retained his core belief that there was always... hope. 

Hope was the whole point.

If he'd forgotten that, especially to the point where Dean not only noted it but was worried about it, then it'd gone too far, and that was wholly unacceptable.

Sam needed to figure out how to get back to that hopeful space, not only for himself, but for Dean, too.

With all that was going down with Azazel and his army, their very lives depended on it.

“Yo, Earth to Sasquatch, come in.”

Sam snaps out of his reverie to find Dean studying him intently. 

“You went to Oz there for a minute.”

“Just thinkin'.”

Dean shoves the bedside tray away. “Like I said.” He scoots to the far edge of the bed, patting the empty side. “Take a load off.”

Sam gestures to the clearly not-so-comfy armchair, but before he can say a word, Dean cuts him off.

“You sleep in that thing, you'll be a grumpy little bitch all day tomorrow.” Dean pats the bed again. “C'mon, just do it. Sleep on top of the sheets, if that makes a difference. Those meds are kickin' in and I don't feel like fightin'.”

“Dean—”

“No one's gonna give two shits, Sammy.” 

Sam nods and toes off his Pumas while shrugging out of his jacket and flannel. Using the laminated channel guide as a sort of dustpan, he scoops up most of the spilled salt and pours a thin line across the threshold of the door before kicking up the prop. The wide, heavy door slowly closes, latching with a soft _click_.

Dean's eyes follow him as he yanks the curtains closed, and Sam pauses a moment before closing the last one, watching as the night unfolds beyond the thick plate glass. 

A solitary mini-van navigates the wet pavement of the parking lot below, but beyond the rheumy glow cast by the mercury vapor lights, all is dark and foreboding. There's no moon, no stars this night, all obscured by a heavy pall of cloud cover.

Lightning flashes far off to the west, another front coming through fast. 

Sam shivers in spite of the warmth of the room, quickly pulling the curtain closed. He turns to find Dean fast asleep, the television remote still in his hand, a re-run of _Stargate: Atlantis_ on Sci-Fi playing out quietly to itself. 

He takes off his jeans, carefully folding them before placing them on the not-so-comfy armchair. He switches off the bedside and headboard lights and climbs into the bed, which is far more comfortable than it should be. 

Dean mumbles something and shifts closer, his head barely resting against Sam's right shoulder. 

Sam settles in, blinking at the television as some hero-guy has a seriously intense exchange with what looks like a bipedal insect brandishing a spear-like weapon. He has no clue as to what's going on; he and Dean were less than halfway thorough _SG-1_. He clicks off the television, the room plunged into near darkness.

Another flash of lightning, then the inevitable thunder following.

A storm was coming, all right, and he and Dean were smack in the middle of it.

Together, they'd figure it out.

Together, they could do anything.

 

**_~~~~ fin ~~~~~_ **

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: The prompt was Superstitions, specifically that the spilling of salt is bad luck.


End file.
